Loki & Angrbotha
by Una Dougal
Summary: Loki, who was Odin's son, fallen prince of Asgard and of Jotunheim, war criminal on Midgard, is returned to his ancestral home and meets his match in the Jotun war witch, Angrbotha. (Loosely based upon crossing Norse lore with Marvel movie verse.) {Essentially a Thor fic, though it is intended to take place after Avengers.}
1. Chapter 1

1.)

A crack of light grew gradually wider in his dark cell. The prisoner shifted on his bunk to watch the little crack of light as it lengthened almost imperceptibly. It had seemed to come from the wall next to the door, little surprise as that was where the hinges were; but as he watched the little filament he became aware that indeed the light rippled ever so gently, and that it hovered in the air within his cell. He gazed at it like one entranced; though throughout this it caused him to wince. His once-shining eyes had grown so accustomed to the depth of the gloom in his sunless cell.

Intrigued, the bone-sore, ragged prisoner sat up. It was more effort than he had thought it would be and it cost him dear. He silently sucked in air through his teeth, willing himself to be noiseless despite the pain. With leaden limbs, he watched and waited. Hopeless, he waited.

A noise outside this tomb of a cell seemed to boom in his ears, unaccustomed to sound as they had become since his trial. What was it? The guard passing, surely. Then it was gone, leaving a ringing in his ears. He could not even whisper to himself to ease the solitude, the silence. They had stolen his voice.

A chill seemed to creep into the cell, and he wondered at this. The bright crack in the air grew, though it cast no illumination. The chill emanated from it, and rime ice formed on the floor and ceiling. The faint glitter of ice crystals caught his eye and the sight was a welcome one, different as it was from the fathomless abyss – so frighteningly reminiscent of another emptiness he had once been lost to. The air in the cell seemed now to fluoresce and contain a faint but living light. He thought he caught the metallic tang of magic on the humming air. He breathed deep, for it had been a long, long time since he had smelled this, touched this.

"_Jotunheim!" _cried something deep in his memory, just before the vibration in the air changed and the crack of light exploded. Loki Laufeyson, criminal of Asgard, had only a moment's notice and the instinct to curl into a protective ball before the concussion took his consciousness and he was elsewhere.


	2. Chapter 2

2.)

The shockwave of magical energy expanded and contracted in less than the blink of an eye. The eye of the Allfather or his watchdog, it was hoped had not even detected it. The lost son and scourge of Jotunkind was home at last.

When Loki awoke he found himself again enveloped in darkness. But this darkness was different than his cell had been, warmer in tone, somehow more welcoming. He extended a hand and found that he was lying on his back, beneath a heavy layer of fabrics. Topmost of these proved to be some manner of soft fur, though what creature was so large in life as to yield such a pelt, he could not guess. Against his will, he sighed and lay back into the gentle bedding and was soon sleeping soundly for the first time since childhood. As he drifted into unconsciousness he realized there was a different sort of magic here, and that he did not care at all what his fate might be, only that there was some comfort at long last.

When next the exile of Asgard awoke, there was light, though faint and reddish. Firelight, he realized, and he saw by the ember glow that he was inside some vast hide sewn, round tent. There was a brazier in the center of this, beneath an oval smoke vent where the stars twinkled and a pale hint of dawn teased the sky. Beside the fire bowl a figure hunched in deep shadow, and its glowing eyes mirrored the embers, watching him.

"_What realm is this?"_ He tried to ask, and found his voice still absent.

The figure chuckled and uncurled itself. The Jotun stood slowly, glared at him; then strode out of sight and, with a gust of cold air, out of the tent. After some moments a flap that Loki heard rather than saw opened and closed again. The captive trickster sensed that he was being studied and wondered why he was not already dead. He tried to ask this, when the frustration began to fray his nerves. Upon turning in his bed, he was aware that he had been stripped naked and, in all likelihood bathed by unknown hands. He chose to ponder this mystery later if he lived.

Asgard's ill-fated one heard a chuckle from the deep shadows, a voice much smoother than the one who had laughed at him earlier followed. "Bestill yourself, Loki Who-was-Odin's-son." The voice calmly commanded, consoling, "In good time, your voice will be returned to you."

The exile turned toward where the voice had sounded, looking quizzically into the murk.

The voice sounded from before him then, in shadow nearby the faintly glowing brazier. "It is at my will that you are here at all, and by my will alone shall you be restored and made whole."

Loki snorted derisively at this, thinking _"made whole indeed?"_ It was not to be believed; there had been too much pain for him to ever be or even feel truly whole. He wondered who would be so stupid or so daring as to claim such a thing was within their power.

"More daring than stupid, as you shall see," this smaller figure by the fire informed him, and he was impressed by the speaker's audacity.

"_Then why not show yourself?"_ he thought, wondering if his strange companion could read his thoughts or just guessed them.

The shadowed figure chuckled more to itself than at its captive guest, and despite himself Loki smiled, though it made his battered lips bleed.

"Now see, my lost prince, you have done yourself an injury," the shadowed one spoke, "and for what? To test me?" But the figure stepped forth into the dim light thrown by the warming dish of embers anyway. A Jotun woman she was - he had not known there were any such - and she stood before him, wearing fitted dark leather, light armor with a pale gray pelt draped around her shoulders. Her eyes and her hair nearly the same color as the low-burning embers, her face and hands were the color of indigo night claiming the evening sky just after sunset. She took a step nearer and her appearance wavered. She reached a hand down to trace his ragged lips with cool fingers, and she was as pale skinned as he, with eyes of deep blue.

"I am called Angrbotha," she told him gently, "and in due time, I will set you free."


End file.
